


Contradiction

by ScribbleWillow (Soul_in_the_Starlight)



Series: Dark Shines [3]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Mental Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soul_in_the_Starlight/pseuds/ScribbleWillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donna becomes the cruelest of mistresses...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contradiction

He stands half naked in front of the mirror, long neck arched to the side for a better view, his fingers lovingly stroking the fading ghosts of her pitiless love.

His hand trails lower, down over his chest, seeking the nipples made so tender by her teeth. His fingers brush over them, gasping involuntarily at the surges of pain as his fingers briefly connect.

Lower still, his hand follows the trail of hair towards his waist, past his navel, arriving at the soft white towel that lies cuddled around his hips, the only comforting embrace he'll receive.

His eyes connect with those of his reflection, remembering long ago when his face stared back with love. But only she must now be pleased with this body; he, for now, has rescinded that right.

Hooking his thumb in the towel, he releases it, freeing the protruding ache at his groin. He allows his eyes to drop, sees it curving up towards him, throbbing, pulsing with blood and desire. He captures it in his hand, watching himself in the mirror as he makes a long tight stroke from root to tip.

It feels good, the warm tightness of his hand, blood pounding in his temples as his distant climax beckons. His eyes stray in the mirror, up, past his shoulder to the bed behind him where she waits.

So beautiful...

She sits perched on the edge, limbs lithe and supple, pale blue frilly knickers and matching bra. One of his blue shirts is thrown on hurriedly, the sleeves pushed up as she pulls it tight around her. She affects that little girl pose, knees together, silver-sandaled toes turned in on their tips, a parody of innocence in her summer sky apparel. Where once it would have matched her eyes, now it is a stark reminder of summers never to be.

Her hair is longer now, wild, tousled, and his hand grips his straining cock as he allows himself this sin; to imagine his hands tangled through it, pulling on it viciously as he takes her on all fours...

"Turn around," she demands, so softly. Yet still he's quick to obey.

He turns, allowing her eyes to rake over him as she leans forward, her breasts pushing together into a succulent valley where he longs to be lost. Her lips are parted, so pink and inviting, he wants to thrust himself between them; it's for her to decide if he deserves such delight.

"Stroke yourself," she tells him, her own hands lost in the juncture of her thighs, her quiet panting plunging a knife of disappointment into his hearts, she might choose only to give pleasure to herself tonight...

The room feels airless, and he takes a deep breath, like a man who is drowning. His hand begins, slowly and rhythmically, sliding along the length of him, eyes fixing on Donna, as her own hands go to work.

"On you knees," she whispers, and he sinks down before her, the hardness in his hand burning hot as fire.

She reluctantly releases her hands from their labours, holding out her glistening fingers towards him.

"Crawl to me, lover, taste how much I want you," her voice is soft, almost child-like, pleading, her eyes wide and shining above pouting lips.

Lover... he was many things to her, but never that. Her plaything, her slave, her punch bag; but nothing so longed for as a lover. Another empty promise that shatters on the howling winds of broken hope.

He releases his erection and does her bidding, crawling across the floor towards her, as she sits, like a mother, arms outstretched, as if to offer this frightened child a craved embrace.

He remains on hands and knees, only stretching up his neck to lightly suck her juices from her fingers, as she slides one foot from her delicate shoe to caress him.

He turns to the other hand, savouring the saline sweetness of her centre, moans escaping his throat behind his eager tongue. Her foot is cool on his heated skin, increasing his frustration, as it strokes but doesn't devour.

She withdraws her hands from his desperate mouth, entwining her fingers in his still damp hair. With a sudden movement, she drags him closer, feeling the tension in his scalp as he cries out in pain. She twists his face up to look at her, seeing the desperate need in his eyes as it wrestles with the fear, the guilt, the revulsion.

She slides down from the bed, onto to her knees before him, her lovely face so smooth and soft, close enough to count the freckles on his own, and he feels she has time enough to do so, in that dreadful long moment as she stares into his soul.

Such a picture of innocence...

She relaxes her grip on his hair, her hands sliding down past his ears to cup his cheeks, close enough to kiss him. It makes his manhood bob against her knees.

"Do it," she whispers, stroking his cheek, wiping away the shadows of doubt as she appeals to the craving deep within him.

"Do it, my love." 

She begs him.

He lifts himself away from her, sits himself back on his calves as he watches her lower her arms to her lap, head bowed in supplication.

His breath is coming fast, too fast, he is trembling; he knows it will be terrible, but he wants it all the same.

He closes his eyes for the flicker of a moment, a fleeting prayer to the universe for forgiveness. 

He pulls back his hand and strikes her hard across the face.

The force of the blow knocks her to the floor, her wild hair forming a tent around her shoulders, she trembles before him, breathing out in quiet sobs.

And there, oh yes! At last, it washes over him, like a full force supernova that robs him of all thought. The guilt, this terrible guilt, the horror that tears at his hearts and leaves him breathless. But then, slowly, and deliciously, comes the euphoria, the after shock of gladness as her suffering feeds his lust.

Slowly Donna moves, sits up, sweeps the hair from her face and he can see it; the ugly red mark that corrals the long split on her cheek.

She reaches  for his face with one hand, gently turning it so that he must look in to her eyes.

And there he sees her. His Donna. His lost love, looking back at him through the windows of tears. She is hurt, she is frightened, she reaches for him, begging release from the madness that imprisons.

He knows that only death can quiet the maelstrom that roars inside his mind. To see her face, so savagely marred by his own brutal hand, even as the girl he loves lays trapped inside her own insanity. It's enough to make him want to run from her. To send the TARDIS into the heart of a dying sun, so he can save them from themselves.

But he doesn't run.

Instead he kneels there, as she reaches for him, this near permanent hardness that constantly betrays him. Her hands run over it softly, caressing him, moistening her movements with her tears.

She lifts her head to look at him; her expression chaste and virginal. She leans in to brush her lips across his eyes, now closed tight against the burning, salty sting of self-loathing. Her hand squeezes and rolls around him, makes his stomach tighten with hot anticipation. Slowly, she glides her tongue along her plump bottom lip, savouring his tears before she bends her head to feast.


End file.
